


Tangent Works

by aroncorsier



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Collection of stories, Side Stories, not all related, oneshots?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-06 15:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20293954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroncorsier/pseuds/aroncorsier
Summary: Hiya all. This is going to be a collection of side stories, since I’ve gotten requests to do certain things that don’t fit in with the story arc I’ve got going currently (for example, a D&D fic with the characters playing, which I’m really looking forward to) the two that I’ve got going up within this day or so are a Bravat one and an Undertaker/Othello one. Random stories, a few chapters long each, with BB cast as well as some of my original characters in some of them, if you haven’t been following you can just skip those chapters :) each chapter will have description in the notes





	1. Moving In, Moving On

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome aboard. For those who have been following all my stories closely, have no fear! Memoirs of a Mortician and For the Time Being are both being actively worked on! Both current chapters are massive so it’s taking time, and my life is chaos right now so rather than keep you all in the dark and bored, here’s going to be a collection of random stories that I post for little side fics I feel like writing (all black butler themed, of course, heavily featuring the Undertaker and our general favourite cast of characters) each chapter will have its own story and description. Enjoy! The first story will go up right now, and another story (ft Undertaker) will go up tomorrow. They’re not long, but hopefully they’re fun.  
If you’re just joining, the first story may be confusing, and you may want to wait for the second, or go start with some of my other fics and get involved in the storyline, m8, we have fun. Anywho enjoy guys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lololol self-projection,,, I am MOVING in literally a week and I have NEVER MOVED BEFORE and I am doing it aLONE AWAY from the life I’ve always had, leaving people, leaving my job, etc, and so I’m proJECTING MY PANIC because I’m having a ROUGH NIGHT so please enjoy this chapter :) Bravat (I know his name can be translated to Blavat, I prefer Bravat) foresees that there is a lost soul abandoned near his home, and decides to help. (This involves my OC, Langdon, and it will totally mess with some of you if you’re following the stories although this is also just a side story and has no real impact; just adds some interesting details you may catch later in the other stories) enjoy!

I was seated comfortably on my bed, in my studio apartment on the third floor of a cold, aged building, with the window open, despite the frigid 2 AM breeze that crept into my bedroom. The curtains fluttered gently, the wind seeming to inhale and exhale with each calming breath that I took.  
Feeling the sudden need to hum a quiet note, I kept my eyes closed and sang under my breath, feeling a certain constellation shifting uncomfortably on my skin.  
“Yes, Orion?” I murmured, listening for the whispers of the stars, floating in through the window.  
Suddenly, the image of a child who had collapsed against the curb, bruised and bleeding in the darkness, flashed across my mind, and then I was back in my room, braid swaying as my head jerked to the side. Eyes fluttering open, I gasped and straightened.  
The constellation burned angrily against my arm.  
“Yes, yes,” I whispered, patting it reassuringly. “I’m going, I’m going.”  
With little time to spare, I unfurled myself from my meditative position and slid off of my bed, grabbing up my black cloak and throwing it on over my shoulders. The clips clicked into place as I shoved my feet into my boots, unlocking my door and vanishing down the stairs. The darkness was everywhere.  
But that did not matter.  
My hands drifted back and forth before my face, helping me sort through the voices of the universe as I hunted for the child. Finally, Orion spoke up again, tugging on my sternum to guide me.  
Blindly, I half-stumbled and half-ran, only disoriented for how much I had to let the stars take control. Guidance was difficult, but the stars never cared to learn the street names of London, after all.  
“Lead me to them,” I murmured, eyes wide and seeing nothing but the glittering sequins in the sky. “Take me to the child.”  
I blacked out several times along the way, although that was quite alright. I still felt quite calm.  
Orion calmed as I drew around a corner, and there, nearly unconscious on the cobblestones, was the child. The pool of blood was slightly bigger than when I had been gifted the first vision.  
Silently, I knelt next to the damaged little body.  
“Child,” I murmured, carefully laying my hand against their shoulder and rolling them to face upwards. “Face the stars, child.”  
The body beneath my palm made some small groan of pain. Bandages crossed the pale and malnourished face, as well as their hands and arms, but they had recently been bled through. From the shaggy, unkempt black hair and thinness of the child’s stature, I presumed them to be orphaned, although the injuries confused me. The bandages confused me even more.  
I was to take the child home, I knew, and I carefully lifted the frail body into my arms, the stars along my skin lighting up and helping bear the weight. There wasn’t much to begin with. It was almost like magic, as I was guided back home, both the broken child and I safe within the protective bubble of the stars. 

Back in my flat, I laid the child on the bed, unwrapped the bandages, and rewrapped them with my own gauze and tape. I carried these medical supplies with me always, as I often took blood from clients, and I never wanted anyone leaving my sessions feeling sore or in danger.  
I hummed quietly while redressing the unconscious youngling.  
“No, no, Sirius, I don’t want to know right now,” I declined politely, deflecting the message with my moon tattoo. “I already know far too much about the child. I will learn more later. For now, I need to heal them.”  
Settling myself gingerly on the bed next to the victim, I held my palms together in front of my chest and let my eyes flutter closed, taking several deep breaths and gently guiding myself into trance, aligning my heartbeat with the rhythm of the wind.  
“I call upon the wisdom of Vega and the guidance of Sirius, I call upon the will of the stats to take this vessel and grant the child before me life and restoration,” I murmured slowly. “I call upon the spiritualistic strength of Canopus and the vitality that glimmers within Polaris to take from me whatever may be necessary, and grant this vessel the ability to pass the healing powers of the stars of the Earthen horizon, one Sky to another, one by one, whisper, I call to thee and call upon the balancing and judgement.powers of Li:bra and thę čłærītÿ.øf¡Cåprįčørn...” my voice trailed off.  
I dissociated into the sky, only dimly aware of my corporeal body, my existence only serving as a vessel of healing as the constellations on my arms lit up and burned with starlight and fire, scorching their way further into my skin.  
My room was alight with bright white starlight. Leaning forwards, I pressed my hands against the chest of the child, aligning my heartbeat with the faint pulse that I could sense, channeling the light into them.  
The body on the bed twitch and jerked, wounds closing like magic before my eyes. Sealed with stardust. My skin was glowing, bright enough that I could see the glimmering light beyond my shut eyelids.  
I could only stand to channel raw universal energy for a few moments. Suddenly disconnecting, I slumped to the side and slowly fell off of the bed, feet flipping over my head as I hit the floor, exhausted. The clips of my cape flew apart and it flattened out on the floor beneath me. Vision growing fuzzy, I stared at the darkness beneath my bed, open-mouthed and breathing hard.  
My arms were sore.  
Forcing my head up once I recovered my orientation, I peeked over the edge of the bed and peered at the child.  
The stars seemed very far and very dim, now.  
The wounds had stopped bleeding, the new and thin bandages I had applied remaining white and properly adhered.  
“Perfect,” I muttered, smiling tiredly before fainting backwards. 

I awoke to the child, sitting upright on my bed, gazing with what seemed like terror at their hands.  
Lifting myself off the floor, I draped my arms and chin over the edge of the mattress, blinking sleep out of my eyes as I analyzed my new roommate. “What’s bothering you?”  
“M-m-my hands,” the child whispered. “T-they’re... they’re healed! How long have I been asleep for?! Who the bloody ‘ell are you?!” They shrieked, fixing me with a very pale and very shiny glare. I glanced at their clothing, taking in details I had been too distracted to notice the night before. It was a set of mortician’s robes. How odd.  
Aware of how challenging my own eyes could come across as, I hooded my gaze and smiled lightly, laying my hand flat out towards them on the mattress. “Oi, kid. I know you’re scared. Just relax, okay? You’re safe. It will all make sense in a few hours.” I kept my voice calm, slow, and neutral. “Are you hungry?”

The promise of food was enough to win the starved child over, and I toasted some bread on electric coils, which were a new and interesting convention, layering the bread with butter and handing several pieces on a plate to the youngling, who was nothing but questions. I smiled and answered each one calmly, not particularly annoyed by anything.  
“How did you find me?”  
“Orion told me where to find you.”  
“Who’s Orion?”  
“I can take you to meet him tonight,” I murmured kindly. “I’m sure he would love to see you alive and well. He was very concerned last night,” I chuckled and sat on my cape on the floor, gazing up at the child, who refused to budge from my bed. “You really had him in a tizzy.”  
“Why is your hair purple?”  
“Why is your hair black?” I returned, in what I thought was good humour, but the child reacted rather violently.  
“Do not speak of my hair colour!” They snapped, crushing a crust in their tiny fist as their slate eyes flashed.  
I could not keep my own eyes from widening in surprise. The child, immediately hypnotized and dazzled by their glitter, looked away shyly and brushed off their hand, seeming embarrassed. “S-Sorry...”  
After a moment of silence, I smiled again. Why had the stars given me this strange youngling to look after?  
“It’s not a problem,” I offered mildly. “You’ve been through much.”  
The child’s eyes flickered up to meet mine again as I finished my bread. “How would you know?” They inquired quietly.  
“Mm,” I tapped my lips. “Well, I can see it, dear one. But I could see it much better, if you wanted,” I offered.  
This was true. With all the contact I had with the child’s blood already, the stars were screaming at my back, weighting my shoulders with boulders of information about the littler one. I just wanted consent, permission to know, before I looked too deep. I was a gatekeeper; the stars and I ruled each other in turn.  
As soon as the orphan’s mouth began to shape a hesitant but affirmative response, the stars could no longer contain themselves. Information, flashbacks, voices, and above all else, physical pain crashed down on me in wave after wave. At some point I collapsed on the floor, and was shortly faced with the orphan on my chest, screaming at me.  
“Wake up! Wake up! I don’t know who you are, I don’t know what to do—!”  
“Hey, it’s okay,” I managed to slur, vision still hazy as I caught the child’s wrists and sat forwards, lurching upright and clutching the child to my chest. It stabilized both of us, and the orphan, obviously scared to their wits’ end, began to cry. They grit their teeth angrily as a fist curled into my loose and pale blue button-up, and that was okay. I felt the sobs wracking the thin body against me. That was alright too. Expressing emotion was not the sin that society had made it out to be, and I took a few minutes to recover, breathing hard after having experienced a very washed-out version of the child’s life in a fraction of a second.  
It was Hell.  
What was I supposed to do? I could not keep the child, the stars made that perfectly clear. I debated, whilst my arms were wrapped around the narrow shoulders, that this could be the first time I ever defied the universe. Was it worth the risk? What was the risk? Orion very clearly outlined that I was to heal the child, and give them back to the world to make their own way. They had a purpose to fulfill yet, beyond my reach or influence, and I was only a bridge, a temporary guide to keep them alive in a time of extreme need.  
“Oh child,” I murmured over the orphan’s shoulder. “I wish so badly to help you.”  
“Don’t!” The child replied, to my surprise, burying their face further into my shoulder. “Don’t! Everyone who tries dies!”  
After a shocked pause, I chuckled softly and ran a hand over the head of raven hair. “Death is alright, child. It is a natural part of the cycle. Sacrifice is necessary,” I murmured. “Sacrifice is necessary to make way for new life. And besides,” I added, pulling the orphan back to look into my eyes as they flashed and glittered. “That’s a pretty bold statement, that it applies to *everyone*,” I smiled. “Now, would you like some more bread?”

I gave the orphan, who I demanded remain nameless—although it was a struggle not to assign them a name in my head. That evening, we ventured out, I in my cape and the orphan carrying a knife of mine that I had infused starlight energy into. Protection.  
I guided us by lantern up a hill on the outskirts of London, pointing into the glowing sky once the city was asleep.  
“You see, up there? Those stars? The ones that match this pattern,” I whispered in the silence, drawing my sleeve back and holding the lantern to it for the child to see.  
Nodding, the orphan looked back up at the beautiful night sky, stars dancing in their eyes.  
“That is Orion,” I finished.  
A thought occurred to me. I found that other people were often protected, blessed by the presence of at least one star, not an entire constellation. Orion the Hunter. How strange.  
Letting my eyes flutter closed, I breathed in, and out, slowly, taking the child’s skeletal hand in mine and facing my other palm to the sky. Let the light flow through.  
“You have an unusual star who watches you,” I smiled, amused and amazed. “Heka, of Orion. The eye of the hunter,” I explained softly.  
The child said nothing, but stared at the star for the few hours that we remained there, eventually lying on our backs in the cool grass.  
I was still debating defying the stars. Perhaps they were wrong this time. There was a first for everything, after all.  
Sacrifices, I reminded myself, must be made. The orphan would survive without me, surely.  
“Keep that knife on you, always,” I murmured. “It is small. Do not use it to hurt others, only to defend yourself. Keep it somewhere safe, where enemies cannot find it. Heka protects you,” I sighed, leaning over and pressing a kiss to the child’s forehead. The orphan had radically transitioned from asking constant questions to dead silence.  
As we walked back into town, the child stopped very suddenly. I spun to face them with a kind smile.  
The child was not pacified. “You’re going to leave me, aren’t you,” they whispered.  
I blinked once, and then smiled again. “Come. I promise I will not leave you.”  
The child stared warily at me for a moment, before jogging forwards to latch onto my extended hand.  
We walked to a park where I knew the child would be safe until sunrise. I sat on a bench, and gestured for the orphan to sit next to me, smiling reassuringly the entire time.  
“What star watches you?” I asked, taking both of the child’s hands in mine.  
“Heka,” they replied hesitantly.  
“And what does Heka represent?”  
“The eye of the hunter...”  
“Beautiful. You are beautiful, child. And what is my name?”  
The orphan opened their mouth before stopping dead, eyes widening. “I-I don’t know—“  
“Perfect,” I whispered, quickly pulling the child into trance with me, running my thumbs over their eyelids gently and guiding the now unconscious head to lean against my chest. I breathed in with the universe, and gently pulled out all of the child’s memories of me, before carefully laying the orphan down on the bench and vanishing into the night, my teardrops glittering like stars.


	2. Suture Self

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m trash and I really like Othello/Undertaker pairing. Uh, I use the fandom name Adrian for this one, as it is set before he deserts dispatch. It revolves around the day that ‘Adrian’ gets all his scars, and is sent to Othello to be fixed, and a relationship blossoms there.

I remember getting the call in my office, right before I was about to wander down to the vending machine. It had been an average day, at least to me, and I was rereading a bland forgery case when the eggshell plastic office landline hanging on the wall by the door rang, jarring me out of my thoughts. With a sigh, I debated ignoring it, not in the mood to have to find some way to politely turn down some agonizingly cheerful lunch offer or something. It reached the third ring and I glanced at the clock. Ans then I remembered that today, I had chosen to come in late. What could somebody want from *me* at six in the evening?  
Rolling my eyes in frustration with myself, I slid my feet off of my desk and tossed the manila folder half-heartedly. A series of papers slid out of place, and I pulled my glasses off my nose and rubbed my face, glaring at the phone over the edge of my hand as it reached the fifth ring. I really shouldn’t be picking it up at this hour. I shouldn’t be here, much less be taking after-hours requests.  
On the seventh ring, my fingers wrapped around the handle and yanked the receiver off the base, propping it against my ear with my shoulder as I leaned back against the wall.  
“Y’ello?”  
“Put on your lab coat and gloves and clear a space.”  
“Who the bloody hell is this?”  
“Lawrence Anderson.“  
“Don’t you make—“  
“Glasses, yes, now would you shut up and let me talk!” The voice barked. I flinched and stayed silent.  
“Dispatch has encountered an emergency of a standing we have never faced before. This is an all-hands-on-deck situation, and you have a collections reaper coming in for emergency surgery.”  
“Surgery?!” I cried. “Emergency? Can they not heal? How bad can it be? S-shouldn’t they go to the hospital ward? Why are you calling *me*?!”  
“Hospital is busy with nearly 17 other intensive care cases, most of which are from this same bloody thing. This collector was the head of the team sent out. He took the most damage and needs immediate care, and you are the most suitable for the job. I have already spent too long explaining,” the phone growled. I had never heard Lawrence speak with such urgency. “Get your lab coat and gloves on. Now you need to tell me if you want him in your office or in the autopsy room.”  
“M-my office,” I whispered, eyes wide as I glanced around the space. “I have the materials here. What kind of surgery we talkin’? Before you patronize me for wasting time, I need to know what to prepare.”  
“Healing surgery, I don’t know!” Lawrence snapped back. He wasn’t vicious, just panicked. “I don’t know if there’s bits of what cut him, or anything! He’s just sliced up, alright? Be ready to stitch.”  
And then the line went dead.  
Ripping the receiver away from my ear in disbelief, I stared at it for a moment before dropping it, leaving it hanging open against the wall as I fled to the medical closet that connected my office to the chemistry lab. From within I grabbed my tight and secure lab coat, whipping off my loose outer garb I typically wore as well as my tie, pulling my operating wear over my shirt and quickly clasping all seven buttons along the left side of my chest and abdomen. My hands were not shaking, and though I was struck with nervousness at the sudden switch in mood, my natural response in emergencies was to remain calm. Until I was under threat. It was something I did not like about myself, but never really had any reason to change; I was rather cowardly. I suppose that I was, however, strong-stomached. A good surgeon, and not a good victim. I could never save someone, never be the sacrifice. All I could sacrifice was sleep for the sake of fixing somebody after they had been failed to be saved. Murder, fraud, wounds, anything post-failure I could tidy up and figure out.  
So who was this collections reaper? How had he been hurt so badly he had to be sent to me? If he was leading a team, it was some sort of infestation battle. Demonic, maybe, but the collections reapers usually knew how to handle themselves. Lawrence had said there were something near 17 other injured reapers currently being cared for from the same event, and that was, essentially, almost too many to send to battle anything. They should have crushed their competition.  
Perhaps it was a large raid, and it had slid under my radar, as many social dramas tended to.  
Next was the sink, to wash my hands, and then on went the nitrile gloves.  
I had not been near a collections reaper in forever. Occasionally they appeared in court, across the room from me as I hid in a chair in the corner, presenting evidence to the Crown prosecutor. They always seemed far too tall and far too strong. I never wanted to tussle with one of those. I was unfit for reaping humans alone, mostly for lack of mental strength, but despite my own supernatural qualities, there was no way I could take on a collector. A collector was a scary beast.  
And now, one was going to be on my table in presumably a few minutes. I felt as though I had just been asked to examine a new species of alien or something.  
Head in the game. Adjust the glasses, spray down the table, fetch the needle and stitching thread, find a scalpel, clean that, a disinfectant and a painkiller...  
I should get a nurse for these days, I thought. Someone to fetch me things in the chaos.  
The issue was that this kind of chaos *never* happened.  
Materials were gathered and checked twice. I lit the bright white LED surgery lamp and pulled it to hover over the table, darkening the room by comparison. Soon, my world would revolve around the body on that metal surface. I turned around, clasped my hands, and waited, staring expectantly at the door with a somber expression. My world was too silent, in comparison to the world of hurt this other reaper must be in. I winced at the thought.  
I did not have to wait long. Around nine or ten minutes later, I heard frantic footsteps approaching down the hall, and I pulled open my door for them.  
What I saw forced my eyebrows to jump in surprise, though I quickly schooled my features.  
Two other reapers, one whom I recognized as a trainee collections reaper (some kid with dark hair who had inquired about some rules or something) and another older one were dragging the third between them. He seemed half-conscious, but unable to move. Even from afar, I could see that he was seriously screwed up; most of his body was coated in red.  
“Did you not have a flat board?” I demanded sharply, appalled at the lack of proper care.  
“Trust me, I tried,” the dark-haired one snapped back. William something, I recalled. “We didn’t have time!”  
Gesturing to the table, I cocked an eyebrow at the rather thick trail of blood that was left behind on the floor. What a disaster.  
“What happened?” I inquired, stepping forwards.  
“We don’t know! I wasn’t there,” William replied, and the two of them had to almost toss the third up onto the table. I quickly jogged around the structure to help, holding the reaper’s head as it fell back. The other two carefully tried to push his limbs up onto the metal surface as well, but the reaper I didn’t know must have bent or touched something particularly agonizing. The injured party gave a weak but horrible cry of pain, and all of us collectively winced.  
My eyes flickered up between William and his accomplice.  
“Go,” I commanded, and they were all too happy to obey, door swinging shut behind them. I needed to get to work, without two half-panicked reapers scurrying about my room biting their nails and asking me questions.  
Now my world was dark beyond the spotlight. Beneath which, a reaper, eyes glassy and red and fixed on the light, lay panting. That was odd. Reapers tended not to breathe when idle.  
Must be a stress response, I observed.  
As soon as I had seen the head of fair hair lolling between the two reapers in the hall, I recognized the victim. It was the Legend himself; no pressure. How had he managed to get eviscerated like this?  
My eyes went all across his body, analyzing it for wounds and how I was going to approach this. Dark crimson blood was already dripping off the table. His muscles twitched and spasmed, fear and adrenaline likely forcing him to stay awake. His laboured breathing trembled with him. Every few seconds, he would either gasp or grit his teeth, although he seemed barely cognizant of his surroundings.  
I ran my gloved hand up his forehead, very gently, as there was a laceration on the left side. Pushing his bangs back, I smiled reassuringly.  
“Hey. Can you hear me?”  
I received no indication that he registered any of my words.  
“If you can, try not to worry. I know you’re in a lot of pain, but you’re safe, and I’m here to help you. Okay? You can talk to me and ask me questions at any time.”  
And that was that.  
I leaned away.  
The first thing I would have to deal with were the clothes, and I eyed his body again. Half of them were already in rags. Torn, bloodied, and stretched, the fabric proposed little resistance to my scissors, and fell away within moments, laying saturated in puddles of blood upon the tabletop.  
Oh my god. There were too many wounds to count, each one deep and angry, dripping fresh scarlet with every passing moment. One crossed his face, one his throat, and several across his chest that disappeared beneath his ribcage and shoulders. There were cuts and scrapes all down his arms and hands, and his legs had not been spared, although they obviously were not the main target. A few long swipes criss-crossed the sides of his thighs, like something had been swinging at him and he tried to turn and dodge.  
It almost looked as though he had gotten into a fight with a reaper, but not had his scythe. I didn’t know what else could cause wounds like this... perhaps a demon, though I wasn’t sure why he wouldn’t have defended himself better. Lost in thought, I flashed back to what might have happened, trying to imagine what could have cut him. I envision myself, swinging something in an arc, causing the rounded trajectory of most of the cuts. Saw the fear flash in his eyes, the anger, and shock, as the first cut lashed across his face. I swung his scythe over my shoulder again, and with a look of terror, his arm shot up to block it. My swing sliced it open and he cried out and fell back, but he was running out of room. I advanced and swung again, the feeling of a scythe in my hand familiar. It struck his chest, back and forth, before his other hand tried to block and was ripped into as well.  
He sagged back against the brickwork. Taking my opportunity, I delivered what was surely meant to be a fatal blow, blade curving around his throat, but he ducked and slid as I made contact with the flesh, and his boot was planted against my chest, kicking me back, away from himself. In a split second, I lost control of my weapon, and the reaper, gold eyes flashing with rage, swung it at the speed of light before burying it into my stomach.  
Before I had time to shriek, the vision ended.  
Shaking my head, I urged my specs up my nose and grabbed a roll of bandages, wrapping several of the shallowest cuts on his legs and arms. I could tend to those later, but I still needed to slow the blood loss. That done, I picked up a needle and thread.  
“This will sting but I think it’s all I have time to do,” I murmured, and dumped the bottle of antiseptic across his chest. The reaper’s body jerked and curled up reflexively, a low moan of pain emanating from his throat, which I imagined couldn’t have helped the wound there. Using the remaining liquid in the bottle, I grabbed a gauze pad and soaked it, dragging and dabbing it across his face and neck.  
I cracked my knuckles. “Let’s begin,” I murmured, and the Legend’s eyes fluttered once. He was still conscious somehow, undoubtedly in shock.  
The throat wound was first, as it was losing the most blood, and the chest cuts did not seem to bisect any organs. Bringing my hooked needle and thread up to that end up the table, I worked quickly, pulling it in and out around the laceration with complete precision and confidence. The two sides of the wound began to meet each other in the middle, slowly but surely. The flesh was angry and red, but luckily had not began to coagulate with blood, or it would have been far messier than it was. Luckily, it was a fairly basic wound, requiring a basic stitch. That took me ten minutes, to go all the way across his throat. To cover it, for comfort’s sake, I pulled a bandage tight around it. I would dress it more properly when I had the time.  
I stitched the facial wound, bandaged that, and worked my way down his body, maneuvering in circles around the table as I attended to the deepest injuries each in turn.  
I didn’t know what time it was anymore, and I had not been watching the reaper’s face, hoping that he simply passed out a while ago. Thus, I had no warning when he, in a fit of delirium and adrenaline, managed to launch himself off of the table and tackle me to the floor.  
Now, if you have never been tackled by a 6’3” man who fights souls for a living while he’s covered in blood, let me tell you, it is a quite terrifying experience. I shrieked and threw my hands up to block him in case he tried to hit me. Luckily, he was obviously not at full strength. He stumbled as he was holding himself above me, leading him to drape sort of sideways and lean on one elbow as he leaned his forehead on the ground. His breathing was ragged, panicked and aggressive. The demand came out in a low growl.  
“Where am I?”  
“F-f—“  
A giant curving blade ground against the tile next to my ear as he slammed it into the floor next to me, with barely a flick of his wrist.  
“Where am I?!”  
“Forensics lab!!” I screamed, hands curling against my chest as I flinched to the side. “You’re b-back at dispatch!!” I was nearly crying, pinned beneath a bleeding, heaving monster.  
The reaper above seemed to barely hear me, but no more questions were proposed. His stability seemed to be slipping.  
Still shaking, I cleared my throat and forced myself to move, pushing my hands against his trembling shoulders.  
“I-I need you. To get back. On the table,” I commanded shakily. “Get back on the table!”  
The scythe seemed to dissolve and he slumped forwards, before staggering to lift himself off of me. As soon as there was wiggle room, I slid out from beneath him, now covered in blood, and tucked my arm under his shoulder to help carry him back onto the table. Once he was replaced and calmed, I grabbed my needle off of the floor. While re-disinfecting it, I noticed my hands were shaking. Holding them up again to the light, the purple nitrile gloves jittered and trembled before my eyes. There was no way I could stitch him this way. After a few deep breaths, they remained the same, and I cursed and slammed the needle down on the table before running away to the chemical laboratory. Dashing through the closet into the darkness, I slid on my heel and twisted left, yanking open the bottom portion of a freezer and jamming my hands straight in.  
The sting that followed caused me to yelp.  
“What...are you doing?” Came the disoriented voice. “Are you...alright?”  
“Would you stop trying to be a hero? You’ve done enough today,” I snapped back, gritting my teeth as the cold began to burn my hands. “It’s just liquid nitrogen.”  
This procedure would seriously injure a human, but while it didn’t feel pleasant for me either, I could regenerate after the burns. “I’m shaking too much. Constructing blood vessels also constricts adrenaline reaching my hands, and so thanks to your little stunt, I need to—“ I was cut off as I grit my teeth against the burn, finally yanking my hands out and nearly collapsing on the floor as I doubled over and pressed them against my legs in agony, kicking the freezer door shut.  
Returning to the operating table, I snatched the needle up and began to stitch the Legend’s left arm.  
The process took another four hours, but the time passed quickly. Each task lended me a renewed sense of urgency, and I was not hindered by any further outbursts from my patient. There were occasional stifled moans and groans and shrieks, but finally, I wrapped up my last bit of gauze and glued it down across his nose. He was nearly in a body cast.  
Exhausted, I stumbled away and dialled the phone for Anderson.  
“What do you need.”  
“He’s done. He’s fine. Get him out of here.”  
I planted the phone firmly on the wall and slid down it, breathing hard myself now that my adrenaline was wearing away. It was half past 11 o’clock at night.  
Nearly bloody midnight.  
I pulled my glasses off of my face, which had a smear of dried blood on the bottom of the left lens from when he had assaulted me.  
What a night.  
I was ready for a bath, and to go home.  
I hardly remembered the retrieval team fetching the collections victim. Apparently, somebody asked if I needed water or something, and I waved them away. It was clear that everyone was still in a state of emergency, short-staffed.  
Honestly, I felt too tired to even start taking off my lab coat.  
Instead, I wandered down to the hospital wing, and worked through the rest of the night, this time with other nurses and doctors to fetch me things. I did accept a drink, and my mind went numb with routine after a while. People cringed when they first saw my garb. I would not have been nearly so intimidating had Legend not steamrollered me into the floor and then laid on top of me, but, alas. A forensics reaper covered in blood was a disconcerting sight.  
I sent cleaning staff to go mop my office. I didn’t want to view any more of that damned reaper’s blood, not ever again. At six in the morning, when every injured reaper was stitched and bandaged, I finally retreated, peeling my fifteenth set of nitrile gloves off and flinging them to the floor. Nasty. I shirked my lab coat, which was even tighter with dried blood, and though I all I wanted to do was sleep, I portalled myself right into my shower, still mostly clothed.  
Finally, I fell asleep in a damp shirt, curled over my towel on the floor, exhausted into oblivion. 

It was not until several weeks later that I saw the Legend again.  
I was sitting in my office, ostensibly fully recovered from my performance, and I was leafing through a new case of some little soul screwup when there was a soft tapping at my door.  
I rolled my eyes and planted the papers on my face, arms hanging down beside my chair as I tilted my head back to balance the folder on my nose. “Come in.”  
The door clicked open and creaked inwards.  
When no harsh voice scolded me for acting so foolish with my case file, I rocked back in my chair and gestured to the empty seat across from me with my hand, without moving the papers. I was trying to discern who it could be. I hadn’t recognized the slow and hushed footsteps.  
“Feel free to sit down.”  
“Thank you.”  
“AdRIAn—“  
The quiet voice was enough to startle me into rocking forwards, file folder flying into my hands and nearly taking my glasses with it. I paused as I landed, open-mouthed, and stared at the very heavily bandaged reaper sitting across from me.  
Coughing quickly, I adjusted my glasses and pretended to be very suddenly interested in my case. It was a fight to not blush just from being looked at.  
Screw social interactions. Everything about them was awkward and awful.  
“H-hello,” I mumbled shyly, trying to act composed. “How can I help you today?”  
When he didn’t respond, I dared to flicker my gaze over the manila folder to meet his, for just a second. I quickly ducked back down as terror gripped my heart.  
I broke the silence again. “Are you feeling better already?”  
“Slightly,” came the quiet reply.  
I lowered the case again, staring at him over the edge. “Talking must hurt your throat.”  
Adrian gave a weak smile. His hair was pulled back, in a low ponytail, bangs hiding one of his eyes, the bandages disappearing beneath them. The other eye fixed on me with glowing intensity, and I tried not to look at it, lest I visibly flinched.  
He cleared his throat. “Somewhat.”  
“Pity,” I murmured. “You will have some scarring.”  
“I have come to terms with that.”  
“So soon?” I questioned, flipping the folder down so it rested flat on my lap.  
He shrugged, shoulders shifting in his loose black shirt. Obviously, he had been told not to wear his tight coat or boots. He was nearly in pyjamas, and I was in my work clothes, yet still I felt so... bizarrely unprepared, underdressed, compared to him. I was a weak and idiot duckling, facing a werewolf that had already eaten its hunters. The only reason I wasn’t dead was because he happened to not be hungry.  
After a moment of silence, I felt my anxious blush returning and pulled the folder back up in front of my face.  
He chuckled softly. “I’m sorry I attacked you, but you don’t need to be *that* scared of me,” he laughed, leaning across the desk and plucking the folder out of my grip.  
Well, if I wasn’t overwhelmed before, now I certainly was.  
“Sorry,” I replied with a grin, trying to sound at ease as I glanced at the floor before meeting his gaze.  
He leaned forwards on the desk with one arm, carefully closing the case and setting it on the corner of the table.  
“Why are you so nervous?” He inquired. “I mean, of all things, I should be the nervous one.”  
I barked a laugh and leaned back in my chair, subconsciously trying to get away from him. I analyzed my nails. “Why, just because I’ve seen you naked? Don’t worry, happens to all of us,” I mumbled anxiously. “It’s just common in the medical field.”  
“You’re not in the medical field though,” he whispered. “So tell me, why was I sent to you?”  
Uh oh. Here it was. Why did I do this, why wasn’t he sent to a real doctor instead of this incapable idiot—  
“I-I-I don’t know,” I laughed apologetically. “I asked the same question...”  
“Well, it does not matter,” he waved a dismissive hand. “I am glad of it.”  
I blinked, shocked. “S-Sorry?”  
He looked back up at me with a raised eyebrow. “I am glad of it? I am glad I was sent to you, not someone else.”  
Unsure how to process his words, I put my lips together into a thin line, nodded slowly, and rocked in my chair again, glancing awkwardly at the ceiling.  
“Can I get you something?” I offered suddenly. “Water, coffee?”  
“You are *so* nervous,” he remarked, sounding concerned. “Relax.”  
“Coffee it is,” I jittered, bouncing up from my seat and moving to disappear across the room to the coffee maker.  
As I rounded the desk, Adrain leaned back in his chair and caught my sleeve. My initial reaction was to jerk away, but I didn’t want to hurt any of his wounds. I held still. Panic. A deer in headlights. I didn’t dare look back at him.  
“Hey,” he murmured kindly. “Relax. Sit down, I’ll be just fine.”  
Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I took a breath. “Let me get you a coffee,” I offered, in a much calmer tone.  
After a moment of deliberation, my sleeve was released from his custody.  
I returned moments later with two drinks, placing one in front of him and clutching the other to my chest like a shield.  
“So, how can I help you today?” I asked again.  
Adrian shook his head, platinum blonde hair bouncing back and forth gently with his movements. “You’ve already helped me enough.”  
“You look much better without...without all the blood on you,” I offered, immediately wanting to crawl into a hole and die. Why the hell did I say that?!  
“Thank you,” he chuckled, folding his arms rather gingerly. “I feel better without all the blood on me. Although, the gauze is getting annoying.”  
“It is, isn’t it? It really is the softest bandage we offer,” I smiled and shrugged. “Doesn’t make it feel natural, though.”  
“I feel like a marshmallow, all padded up beneath these clothes...”  
I misjudged his expression and blushed again, trying not to think about ‘beneath those clothes’, lifting my folder to cover.  
I laughed from behind the paper. “Yes, well... don’t get yourself eviscerated again and I won’t have to marshmallow-ify you in the future.”  
“Thank you for that,” he murmured, expression turning serious. “That’s why I came here. To thank you.”  
A silent pause followed. My gaze darted between my case file and his face. “Just doing my job.”  
“Well so was I,” he murmured. “But you actually succeeded, whereas I did not.”  
“Yes you did,” I replied immediately, and he stilled, pale eyebrows arched at me.  
“W-well, I helped the hospital once I was done with you, right? I saw the other reapers, the younger and the older. None of them had the same type of defensive wounds you did. Much more minor injuries. You did your job perfectly; you kept them as safe as you could. You’re still a hero, Legend, so don’t worry yourself,” I elaborated, voice trailing off unsurely by the end.  
The reaper in front of me seemed to collapse in on himself slightly. I glanced sharply at him, concerned that he might pass out from his injuries. Walking this early after such surgery was an unwise decision.  
I swear, I almost heard him stutter. “You...think I’m a hero?”  
“Well...” I shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. Everyone does.”  
“I should expect that you would not, having only really seen me unconscious on a table.”  
“You were nearly dead and you still managed to find the strength to try and murder me,” I rolled my eyes and reached for my file folder again.  
Adrian was faster, of course, and I flinched back as the folder was snatched away just when my fingertips ghosted over it. A small squeak of surprise escaped me. Throwing his head back, Adrian laughed and waved the folder in the air. “Would you quit hiding?”  
“Give that back!” I cried, lunging for it as he fluttered it at me teasingly. I wound up across the desk, leaning precariously over the edge, slowly stretching and following the folder with my hand as he pulled it ever further out of reach.  
I was so fixated on the folder, I hadn’t even realized the dangerous situation I was placing myself in until I tried to snap at him to just cut it out, give it back, and I glanced down and suddenly his eyes were mUCh cLOSER tHan I THOUGhT—  
Jerking back slightly, my knee slid off my chair and I fell back, barely managing to catch myself in my seat. “Why did you do that?!” I shrieked, unable to contain my embarrassment as I hid my face in my hands.  
He clicked his tongue. “Why did you run away?”  
I thought I might cry. Great, going to cry in front of frickin Legend, what a way to go down in history, the weak little forensics reaper who got so overwhelmed by Adrian’s presence alone—  
“Why are you mocking me?” I hissed, fighting to keep my voice steady. Even I heard the strain.  
“O-oh! I... I’m sorry, here,” he murmured, and I peeked through my fingers at the extended folder now hovering in front of me. “Here, take this back.”  
Without second thought I desperately grabbed the folder back, hiding my face completely within it, and in the safety of darkness I took several deep breaths. I could feel the bubble in my throat, on the edge of a sob, but slowly, I fought it down. A few minutes later, I plopped the folder closed on the surface of the desk, fully recollected, and levelled my gaze at him. He seemed remorseful.  
“How can I help you?”  
“My games are never to hurt anybody,” he whispered. “Least of all you. I’m sorry.”  
“It’s fine,” I amended quickly. “...sometimes I just... get overwhelmed.”  
Adrian’s bruised and bandaged face broke out into a grin. “Am I overwhelming?”  
“You can be,” I snorted, folding my arms and sliding down in my chair. “Although to be fair, I’m... strangely high-strung today. I’m not usually like this. Now are you just here to pick on me at this point, Mr. Popular, or can I get you something else?”  
Adrian paused, and I could tell that his amused smile was replaced with a tight and fake one, despite the fact that his face never changed. Intrigued, I cocked and eyebrow and turned my head slightly.  
“Let me ask you something, Othello,” he began quietly, and I froze up, terrified that the question was going to be something about me that I had to carefully deflect.  
“How many friends do you think I have? Can you name one?”  
My mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Does everybody count? Everybody loves you.”  
“And yet, do any of them care for me?”  
“Why are you having this conversation with me?” I inquired slowly, pushing myself up and bouncing once on my chair, placing my elbows on my desk and lacing my fingers together. “I’ve hardly ever been your trusted accomplice.”  
Adrian’s eye flickered down, and his lips were drawn in. Analyzing the expression, I tried to understand what might be running through his head. It was almost... shame?  
“O-Othello, I need to express something... to you.”  
My eyes widened. Everything he had said and done this conversation clicked into place. “Oh. Are you gay? Because like, it’s okay, I don’t mind, or sorry no—I should just let you tell me how you want—“  
“No,” Adrian blurted. “Or—well, yes. Well, half. But, that’s not the point,” he hissed, waving his hands as if to shake the topic away. “That’s not what I mean.”  
Dammit. Got it wrong.  
Pulling nervously on my lip, I knitted my eyebrows and waited.  
He seemed to be getting frustrated with himself.  
“I should go.”  
“Oh, don’t you dare,” I drawled, rolling my eyes and leaning my head back. “Seriously.”  
“And what will you do?” He snarled, suddenly challenging.  
I was petrified. I had not meant to get in a bloody altercation with any collections reaper, much less *this* one.  
“Wha...really? You are not walking out on me right now! I hate being confused, and you have me completely lost, so you’re going to sit there and explain yourself until I understand!” I commanded, trying to act authoritative with a snappy gesture for him to stay in his seat. It felt too unfamiliar, and I found myself shrinking back in my chair as his fiery glare hardened.  
“And just how do you plan to enforce your scheme?” He demanded in return, eyes sizing me up. “I could snap you in half.”  
Automatically, I glanced at him, and I grinned, relieved. “Not right now, you can’t.”  
I really needed to not say shit like that. Being mushed into the floor once seemingly hadn’t taught me not to mess with the Legend, as I was flat on my back in moments, head pounding after being slammed against the tile. My arms were pinned. He didn’t even *need* to use his body weight, that was the sad thing. With a shriek of protest, I twisted away, kicking at nothing but the air behind him. His pale hair fell across my vision, blinding me as he leaned down, mouth against my ear. The proximity alone was alien and terrifying. I did not need the extra fear-factor of the horrible growl he spoke with.  
“I didn’t even need my scythe,” he spat. “And I could still rip you apart.”  
“And without me, you’d still be in pieces!” I retorted, breath barely coming to me for how his weight was crushing my chest.  
He growled again, and I thrashed in vain as his fingers tightened like snakes around my wrists.  
“Oh my *god*,” I snapped. “Just say it! Just get it over with, tell me whatever you need to tell me! It’s obviously important to you, if you’re protecting it this—this—viciously! This has to be hurting your—ow! Your hands!! Don’t make me stitch you again, you arse!”  
The grip loosened and he suddenly drew back with a curious expression, all malice leaving him. Now I was only being lightly held against the floor, rather than aggressively pinned to it. Still, I shifted uneasily while staring straight up a tunnel of platinum blonde—the loose ponytail must have been shaken out—into his *extremely* green eyes.  
“Would you?” He blinked.  
I paused. “Well...yeah,” I offered, somewhat unsure as to why he was so confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”  
“You would stitch me again, even after I literally re-opened work you already did, for the sake of attacking you?”  
I shrugged, although my shoulders didn’t have much wiggle room. “I probably deserved it. Of course I would still stitch you. Now, if you don’t mind, the floor is not the most comfortable place.”  
Unable to resist his nature, Adrian quirked a dangerous grin. “Would you rather I pinned you to a bed?”  
My eyebrows lifted, but only slightly. This kind of talk was nothing new. I considered how the floor felt for a moment. Shortly, I came to the scientific conclusion that a bed would indeed be far more comfortable, and I shrugged. “Kinda, yeah. Is that all you had to tell me? That you want to pin me to a bed? Or is this conversation actually going somewhere?”  
His expression tensed again. “I...uh...”  
I wiggled my fingers, beyond the cuffs of his hands. At least I could still feel them. I sighed and pressed my eyes shut.  
“Adrian, you’re such a drama queen. Would you spit it. The fuck. Out. Preferably sometime this year.”  
“I just wanted...to...to thank you...”  
Scowling, I blinked at him, stunned by his apparent stupidity.  
“Mate, you’ve already bloody said that.”  
“No! Not for stitching me up! Well for that... but... just... agh! Thank you for...Ca•._¿z...” he tucked his face into his shoulder.  
I cocked an eyebrow expectantly. “Didn’t quite catch that last part.”  
“Thank you for caring for me. More than just, applying your skill to a task, you sacrificed your time and energy for me.”  
“That’s... pretty average stuff, pal,” I replied quietly. “But, I mean, if it means that much to you, you’re welcome. Now would you please get off of me.”  
“You like it,” he teased, kicking my leg lightly with his heel before gingerly pushing himself to his feet.  
“I prefer seeing patients resting and recovering rather than aggressively assaulting their doctors,” I riposted, bouncing to my feet and brushing off my lab coat before poking his arm lightly and lifting it carefully to examine his left hand. The bandages had been freshly replaced recently. “Does it hurt?”  
“Only when you jab it,” he replied, sounding slightly embittered.  
Raising my hands, I rolled my eyes dramatically and fell back into my chair. I watched his sore movements as he managed to make his way back to his seat, lowering himself with far less enthusiasm than I had. “My bad.”  
“Listen,” he began. “I’ve never been cared for, alright? I’ve always rescued others. Not to be... arrogant, about it, that’s not what I mean. That’s just my job. I’m big, I’m scary, I’m strong. That’s what I do. So... it meant a lot, that you would take time, take my injuries seriously, and... fix... me.” He murmured, twisting his hands shyly. “I don’t know, it’s probably weird! I just... I would have felt awful, never having told you how important you were to me.”  
I stared dubiously at him, flipping one leg up and then the other to cross them on my desk before leaning back. “Important?”  
He frowned. “Well, think about it,” he said slowly. “In those hours, you were the most important person in my entire life.”  
“And you in mine,” I replied quietly, before even thinking about my words. Immediately going red, I grabbed my folder and hid in it.  
Adrian laughed uneasily. “See?! It’s difficult to say!”  
“Thank you... for... saying it,” I mumbled, peeking over the edge of the file.  
An awkward pause followed, Adrian toying nervously with the edge of his loose black sleeve.  
“You know how green that makes your eyes, right?”  
Why did I say that. Whyyyyy, why was I like this—  
“Sorry?”  
I shrank further beneath the folder. “Your-your habit of dressing in black, with your white skin and hair, it makes your eyes... stand out,” I rambled, trying to explain myself without making the situation worse.  
When he didn’t say anything, I peeked out over the edge again. “Is there anything else I can help you with today, Adrian?”  
“Your hands. Are they better?”  
“Look at them, blockhead. Do they look burned?”  
“Do you want me to leave?”  
“Only if you have somewhere else to be,” I offered quickly.  
Immediately, I groaned and hit myself with my folder. I needed to stop talking.  
Adrian’s scratchy voice laughed. “Then I will sit here and drink coffee while you pretend to read your case file.”  
“You do that,” I hissed, narrowing my eyes. “You do that.”

I whipped around, purple and clear liquid bubbling chaotically within the test tubes resting in my hands as I spun to face the door that just opened.  
“You’re back,” I noted, somewhat surprised. I dumped the left tube into the one in my right hand, watching as the liquid produced a white precipitate and faded blue.  
“That was neat,” Adrian commented, flipping the visitor chair around on the floor to face where I was standing.  
“Mm,” I replied amicably. “You should have been a chemist.”  
“I said neat, not fun. I don’t know how you spend days on end in here.”  
“Oi!” I snapped back. “It’s not so bad, I find it rather homey.”  
“I think the word you’re looking for is stuffy.”  
“Be nice.”  
“Cluttered?”  
“I’m holding a hydrofluoric acid mixture,” I narrowed my eyes at him. “So I would advise you to be nice.”  
He waved his hands and rolled his eyes. “Oh, I’m so scared. Please, throw your magic potion at me.”  
“I would, but,” I clicked my tongue and raised my eyebrows sardonically, moving to dispose of the chemicals appropriately in the lab. “I don’t feel like fixing you today. Help yourself to coffee.”  
I returned to a curtain of platinum blonde hair draped across the back of the chair, which had been replaced to its original orientation. There were two cups of coffee on my desk.  
“I assumed you would want one,” Adrian elaborated, gesturing at the mug in front of my seat.  
“Ugh, when do I not,” I sighed, planting my feet up on my desk and spinning my chair. “Now. How can I help you today?”  
“You don’t have a file folder to hide in this time,” he noted, with bit of a cheeky grin.  
I scowled into my coffee before smiling back. “I’m feeling more like myself today anyway, thank you,” I replied, somewhat resentfully.  
Adrian’s eyes widened slightly. “Sheesh, you’re as bitter as the coffee.”  
“There’s sweetener on the counter,” I pointed.  
The wolffish grin that I was currently facing only widened, and his eyes refused to leave mine. “I like it bitter,” Adrian snickered.  
My hand paused halfway to delivering my cup to my mouth, but I forced it to continue after barely a moment, denying to accept the blush that I felt creeping up my face. Nothing to see here.  
“Is that so?” I coughed, having inhaled some of the coffee by mistake.  
Adrian chuckled. “Smooth.”  
Today, he was wearing—you guessed it, more black. He was still on firm bedrest, as ordered by none other than myself, but he took his own liberties in showing up at my office after hours every other day. It was made clear to me that I was essentially his only contact, and that the other days, he found himself bored and lonely, having gotten so used to the social work environment. Needless to say, my life was currently very eventful, compared to its usual routine. I often found myself drinking more coffee than I ever would at 6 or 8 in the evening.  
His long and silky hair was pulled into a higher ponytail this time, more akin to how he often wore it while on the job. Obviously, the familiarity was key to his sanity.  
“Have the hospital staff been taking care of your wounds correctly?” I inquired.  
He smiled tiredly and held his hands against his chest. “You tell me... care to take a closer look?”  
“I do, actually,” I replied, calmly ignoring his tone and pulling my chair closer, taking his hand from across the desk and gently pulling back one of the bandages. The deep laceration was clean, not red around the edges, and swelling had decreased. It seemed to be approaching the restorative stage.  
“Excellent,” I muttered, replacing the gauze and tape. I glanced at his face. It still was bisected neatly by bandages, various strips of cotton glued down over his nose and cheek with a tiny patch on his narrow eyebrow. Adrian’s skin was so white anyway, the bandages hardly stood out. It was still just his eyes, like lighthouses of sharp chartreuse every time he opened them. I couldn’t help but remember how they had looked, wide and afraid, as in my flashback. It hurt me, to see him like that. To see anyone like that.  
“Are you done staring?” He asked politely, and the beam of gold was interrupted by white eyelashes as he blinked.  
I jerked back into reality. “S-Sorry. Was uh, just looking at the cuts and bandages...”  
“Mhmm, that explains the solid minute of straight eye-contact,” he murmured, raising his eyebrows and taking an innocent sip of coffee before glancing at me again.  
“That is scientifically impossible,” I replied, lifting a finger with a confident smirk.  
“Oh, please do, tell me all about this thesis about how a minute is physically too long or some other random nerd tangent,” he sighed, waving his hand with dramatic flare as he lifted his mug again.  
“Actually,” I began, folding my arms tightly across my chest and sliding down in my chair. “It’s more to do with the adjective you utilized to describe the type of eye-contact in your proposed skit. For you see,” I continued, ignoring his eye-roll and waiting until he focused on me again.  
I sharpened my glare and continued. “You see, it is scientifically impossible for anything that has to do with you or is around you to be described as ‘straight’.”  
Bright eyes widening, Adrian burst out laughing and nearly spilled his coffee, banging the cup on the desk as he doubled over.  
I hadn’t expected it to go that well.  
Grinning, I added, “what, have I got you in stitches?”  
The Legend laughed harder, sliding fully off of his cheap fabric chair and landing on the floor. I winced and leaned over the desk slightly with concern.  
“S-stop, you’re going to kill me,” he giggled, eventually sorting himself out and pushing himself back up. “And also,” he continued, still snickering madly to himself. “Does that scientific thesis apply to yourself as well?”  
Pondering my words for a moment, I smoothly accepted the rouge that heated my cheeks and attempted not to think about it.  
“I’m not legally required to answer that question.”  
“Boring,” he mocked, draining his coffee and balancing the cup dangerously on his nose.  
I watched him curiously for a moment, mouth slightly open in befuddlement. “What are you doing?”  
“Entertaining myself,” he muttered, swaying slightly to keep the cup balanced. “Since you insist on being so boring.”  
Slowly, one of my eyebrows lifted in mock offence. This bitch wanted entertainment? Fine.  
I slowly smiled and stood from my chair, pushing back from the desk.  
“Excuse me for just a moment,” I murmured quietly, drifting through the closet and into the lab, checking over my shoulder that Legend was still distracted with his cup.  
Grabbing several test tubes, I added copious amounts of acid and blue, purple, and red dyes, in varying combinations to each. The two chemicals fought each other and separated in each test tube, hissing and bubbling. That was not the end goal, however, and I finally managed to find a few stoppers. I needed to build pressure.  
Still running around like a rat in the dark, I couldn’t help but grin as I threw open the freezer drawer. Pulling out a handful of dry ice chunks, I juggled them haphazardly in one hand, creeping up to the doorframe. This was time-sensitive, but I was confident in my abilities.  
Dropping a small piece of the frozen nitrogen in each test tube, I quickly stoppered them all in turn and spun around the doorframe, calmly walking up behind Adrian as the contents in my hands steadily heated up. When I was out of his periphery, I slid the five tubes beneath his chair, and they rolled away from each other silently. Grinning, I took several hurried steps back.  
“Hey Legend. Look at me,” I commanded, and he dropped the cup off his nose, catching it and turning to glance at me.  
Grinning, I held up my empty hands for him to see, and then the glassware beneath him shattered. Five loud pops sounded in quick succession, and Adrian jumped in his chair as blue and purple smoke exploded on his left side, red and blue on his right. Within moments, the room was filled with billowing colours, surrounding us in eerie mists of hazy mauve.  
I chuckled, no longer able to see him in the thick violet opacity, and leaned back against the counter. “How was that for entertaining?”  
“Prey should not speak to a blinded hunter,” he laughed darkly, and a bandaged hand reached out from the smoke and latched onto my tie,  
dragging me forwards.  
I forgot how much taller than me he was. We only typically interacted when at least one of us was seated. Big, scary, and strong were not misused adjectives, I reflected, before grabbing onto my own tie as well to prevent him from choking me.  
“Dammit! Let me go, Adrian!”  
He sighed. I could just barely see the outline of his grin through the smoke, and the silhouette of his shoulders. “Very well.”  
My tie was released, but not before being viciously yanked forwards. Off balance, I stumbled forwards a step, tripping over the boot he planted in my way. Blinded and disoriented in the colourful fog, there was no hope of catching myself, but moments within my stomach lurching his arm wrapped around my shoulders and caught me halfway down, pulling me upright and against him.  
“ADRian—“  
“Don’t you yell at me,” he chuckled. “I just saved your life.”  
Bitch, no you did not.  
“It takes more than a little fall to kill me,” I snapped. “Now let me go!”  
“You sure?” He smirked. “There could be many unseen tripping hazards in such a thick smoke screen like this. Side note, I will admit, that was a very neat trick.”  
“Die,” I hissed, pushing off of him and darting away.  
Suddenly, I almost flipped over something, as I had run in the opposite direction I originally thought, and my hips hit the edge of the counter before I had a chance to correct myself. Chest knocked over to the countertop, I coughed once and laid my forehead against it. That was going to bruise.  
Dimly, I became aware of my vulnerable position, and spun around quickly, bracing myself with my arms back on the counter. Adrian’s hands quickly caged me in, resting on either side. Again, I found myself lost in the suddenly sketchy proximity, a concept rather foreign to me. I was often careful about others’ personal space, and to interact with someone who seemed to disregard all social expectations regarding the bubble was disorienting.  
“A-Adrian,” I whispered quietly, feeling the edge of the countertop against my lower back as he leaned close enough that I could see his challenging smile and hooded eyes through the smoke. It was ethereal and terrifying, a vague black silhouette, corporeal only in golden orbs, skeletal hands reaching out from the mist, and glinting teeth. A tendril of platinum blonde draped forwards over his shoulder, slowly materializing from within the purple fog.  
“Mm?” He replied, looking rather smug as he tilted his head slightly.  
I glanced down at my body, propped at an awkward angle against the counter, before forcing myself to meet his gaze again, demanding that I remain completely calm despite the strange feeling in my nerves.  
I steeled myself. I had done nothing wrong. “You... are elevating this... little game of yours... to dangerous levels,” I murmured, resisting the urge to jerk away as he drifted slightly closer.  
He paused, eyebrows lifting slightly. Then he chuckled under his breath and shifted forwards. “Who said anything about a game?” He said softly in reply.  
His hands sliding to cover mine was enough of a gesture to have my heart in my stomach and back up to my mouth, much less suddenly having *his* lips to mine. It muffled my yelp of surprise rather efficiently. As he moved forwards, his hips against mine pinned me to the counter, feathers of his ponytail grazing my arm from the angle at which he had his head tilted.  
The sensation of someone else’s wetness drying on my mouth was bizarre when he pulled away, but not... unwelcome.  
I blinked hard, feeling as though I might faint. “A-Adrian...?”  
The purple smoke in front of me billowed forwards in an elegant stream as he laughed. I closed my eyes, still somewhat stunned, as the colourful cloud ghosted across my skin.  
I cracked open my eyes after a few moments of silence, registering that his fingers had long since drifted away from my hands. “Adrian?”  
“Perhaps I was wrong,” he giggled, somewhere off to my right as he vanished into the fog. “You are *very* entertaining.”


	3. I Can Sense it On You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undertaker, who is known by few to have deserted the reaping world, is visited by somebody who he recognizes to be from dispatch. What could this new and rather challenging—in a few odd ways—reaper possibly want?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer, it is 2 AM and I am in a motel in the process of moving across the country so sorry if this ain’t up to par or what you wanted, it’s just what came to mind four hours ago. Enjoy!

The Undertaker’s eyes flickered up from their position, abandoning the book they had been patronizingly scouring to gaze upon the disturbance. A new figure had scattered the dust in his shop; someone stood at the door.  
The moment the stranger walked in, the mortician had felt his hackles rise in alarm. It was, undoubtedly, one of the foul fiends he had been avoiding for at least fifty years, if not a century—nasty creatures, terribly selfish, powerful and greedy and disgustingly unstable for the amount of control that they had; each and every one he had ever encountered was just as bad as the last, either lazy, bossy, ignorant, or contemptuous.   
It was a reaper, and the Undertaker quickly shook his bangs in front of his eyes to shield their startling colour from the reaper’s familiar gaze. Within moments, the mortician could sense that he was not dealing with a regular reaper. For some bizarre reason, this customer seemed to be hiding, disguised poorly by amateur efforts to be human.   
But what for?  
Perhaps they were from dispatch, a flawed attempt at disguise destined to try and drag him back out from hiding, or gather information on him. Perhaps the reaper was in the company of the Earl; such a trick would be unwelcome, but not particularly uncharacteristic...  
Undertaker sighed. Perhaps he just ought to see.   
Best be careful, though.   
Folding his book and placing it to the side, the mortician scanned this—frankly, *weird*—little reaper again.  
He was curled back against the door rather nervously, fidgeting with his fingers and glancing around (with normal, boring human eyes, hiding behind boring round spectacles) the shop, looking as though he would rather be absolutely anywhere else. Undertaker’s favourite kind of customer; the ones that didn’t want to see him.   
So all of them.   
This reaper’s hair was pulled back, long and chestnut-coloured, held loosely by a red bow, and he wore a butler’s suit and gloves...gloves which indicated, by their colouring, that many spills had occurred. By the shaking of the hands within, Undertaker could very easily piece together how each stain might have happened.  
He raised an eyebrow.   
If this... child... was sent by dispatch, he was certainly doing a very good job of acting rather afraid.   
“Are you lost?” The mortician offered after a moment. His voice breaking through the silence startled the brunette, and he jumped, bumping his arm back on the door with widened eyes.   
The mortician chuckled. “You don’t look dead.”  
After glancing wildly about himself again, the littler reaper stepped forwards hesitantly. More dust swirled at his feet. “Ah, uh...n-no, see—uh, I suppose that is a rather g-good thing, not looking dead—do you often get people who—? No, silly question, I’m sorry—“ the walking disaster spun around a few times, eyes moving as erratically as his words left his mouth.   
“Relax,” the Undertaker commanded, keeping his voice low and soft. “Stop moving.”  
It wasn’t that the Undertaker needed the little reaper to stop walking, or that he felt good commanding him about—truly, the brunette was in danger of spinning himself to death if he didn’t stop.  
The gentle command gave the newcomer something to focus on. Shifting footwork halting, he faced the mortician rather suddenly, with a petrified expression.   
With his feet on his desk, the mortician leaned back in his chair. He waved his hand.   
“Well, you don’t have to be a statue. Come on, what can I help you with?”  
The little reaper tapped the toes of his boots together anxiously. Glancing at the floor, he ran a hand across his hair and looked everywhere but the mortician, eyes flickering across the ceiling, walls, and books at random.   
“Uh, well, uh, Undertaker... that’s a rather d-difficult question—“  
“You’re very nervous,” the Undertaker pointed out, deciding to address the main issue in hopes of finding an immediate solution. The constant fidgeting was going to steal the last of his sanity.   
“Yes!” The newcomer nearly shrieked in apology, lifting a defensive hand before overriding the instinct to flinch. “S-sorry...”  
“Alright, well, sit down,” the mortician commanded again, gesturing at the chair across the desk. “Please. Close your eyes and figure out your words before you speak. I will not attack you while your eyes are closed,” he grinned.   
Undertaker watched the little reaper’s throat contract as he swallowed, nervous eyes fixed on him. His voice came out in a quiet whisper. “But you may attack me should my eyes be open?”  
Caught off-guard by the question, the Undertaker coughed once into his arm. “That’s the first stutter-less sentence you’ve managed. What’s your name?”  
“...uh—Grelle, sir...” he seemed to hesitate again, clasping and unclasping his hands with an apologetic smile. “I would ask yours, but I-I know you won’t give it, sir...”  
“Sit down,” the mortician murmured, ensuring that he remained completely still.   
Finally, Grelle seemed to stop rambling in his head and slowly lowered himself into the chair, sitting stiff and on the very edge with his hands in his lap.   
The mortician lifted an eyebrow in mild surprise.   
“Might I comment on something, Grelle?” He asked, keeping his tone intentionally neutral.   
Grelle’s green—human green—eyes widened further, a feat the Undertaker would have thought impossible.   
“Uh, uh, very well,” Grelle agreed shakily, jittery voice shaking in his throat as he shifted in his chair.   
“Well,” the Undertaker began with a grin. He tapped a nail against his teeth. “You... have a girl’s name, firstly, Grelle, which is a perfectly lovely name... and the way you sit—you position yourself like a female, Grelle. Either you are a girl in disguise, or you... have been trained or are consciously trying... to be a female. Which is it?”  
Stunned, Grelle’s mouth opened and closed and few times before they snapped their eyes shut, taking a few long, deep breaths. Undertaker waited patiently.   
“I would...rather not say, at this time,” Grelle offered, nervously glancing up at where the mortician’s eyes should have been. Unnerving.   
After a brief pause, the Undertaker shrugged. “Fair.” He stood from his chair and leaned over the desk.   
Time to find out why this reaper was truly here.   
“What are you looking for today?” He murmured, now staring down at the brunette, who was forced to lean further back in the chair in order to maintain eye-line.   
“Um...well, this may sound a bit odd,” Grelle stammered. “But I actually—I actually came to—to talk about you, in a way...”  
Well.   
That was not promising.   
Ideas of a trick from dispatch were growing in likelihood.  
“Mm? How so?” The Undertaker replied, moving off to place his book back in its place on the shelf. If it became a fight, he did not want it to be damaged.   
“Um...well—uh, it is rather strange, and um—well, well I suppose you could suggest that the, uh, the topic and—I suppose my v-visit—by nature—well, well it’s all j-just a bit unorthodox—“  
“You are a strange mortal,” the mortician interrupted. He spun slowly to face Grelle again, who was watching him, terrified, from his chair, curled over and white-knuckling the arms.   
Grelle gave a humourless laugh. “Y-yes, I have been told that before—“  
“No, no,” Undertaker scolded, silencing the younger with a wave of his hand as he stepped forwards. “I don’t give a damn about your stutter,” he elaborated slowly. The dust parted before him as he walked. “I do not care about how you sit or what your name is or why you’re trying to snap the arms off my chair,” he continued, drawing up next to Grelle’s seat, hands clasped behind his back as his heels clicked to rest in the empty shop.   
The brunette.  
Was.   
*Terrified*.  
It was rather hilarious, how Grelle’s eyes popped and his shoulders drew away, but Undertaker was too busy determining whether he was going to have to slice the reaper in front of him to ribbons or not to laugh.   
“I am commenting more on... how you exist,” he murmured slowly, letting his bangs part slightly to reveal an eye. Even he felt the dramatic shift of true eye contact. Reaching forwards slowly, Undertaker hooked his talon into a lock of Grelle’s hair and dragged it forwards, over the brunette’s shoulder. Too uncomfortable to think straight—and slightly mesmerized by the sudden glitter from behind the curtain—Grelle could only stare, confused. The mortician continued, speaking extremely slowly. “I am very...*very*... well-acquainted with death, little one...” he murmured dangerously, glaring at the reaper.   
Bending lower, the mortician placed his hand over Grelle’s right wrist, holding him to the chair as his mouth neared his ear. Grelle flinched back, breath beginning to rattle. Undertaker’s voice was a low hiss. “...I can sense it on you...you crave it so desperately, in so many ways.”  
Nearly about to pass out from fear, and feeling suddenly very trapped with the Undertaker’s arm blocking his chest—not to mention the fingers cuffing him to his seat—Grelle snapped his eyes shut and tensed, doing his best to ignore the threatening breath against his cheek.   
The mortician, meanwhile, was left bewildered. Why on earth would Grelle close his eyes?   
“...What are you doing?”  
It took barely a moment for Grelle to find his voice, coming out clipped and high-pitched with panic. His chest was heaving.   
“Y-you said you—wouldn’t attack me with my eyes closed!!”  
Now *that* made the Undertaker pause.   
He *did* say that.   
Mouth opened, poised with words but paused with thought, the mortician hummed for a moment. “...Indeed, I did say that... very well, I shall not attack you... while your eyes are closed,” he agreed, running the stolen lock of hair through his fingers again. Sensing the spell used to change the reaper’s appearance, the Undertaker shattered it. Bright crimson began to bleed out from Grelle’s hair, fading from brown to brilliant scarlet. That was, of course, the single visible difference. The mortician could only sensed his eyes change. The next time he opened them, which would perhaps be his last, they would be the double-ringed irises, the mortician knew.   
Grelle sucked in a breath. Unable to resist his own surprise, he turned and glanced sharply at the mortician, gaze catching his for a moment. “How did you—“  
The second Grelle allowed his eyes open, the mortician had him by the throat, pinning him against the back of the chair.   
“What does dispatch want?” The ancient reaper sighed, exhausted with the games.   
“Nothing! Nothing!!” Grelle shrieked, free hand clutching and pulling desperately against the mortician’s grip. His voice was barely able to sneak past.   
The Undertaker could feel the little reaper’s muscles spasming, feel the superhuman strength rebelling his touch. It was no match.   
“I’m not from—I’m not from dispatch,” Grelle coughed, bright green eyes still wide and desperate, panicked when he saw that the mortician clearly didn’t believe him. “I’m not! I’m not!! I’m not supposed to be here at all!!”   
“And how am I supposed to just trust that?” The mortician growled, leaning more weight onto Grelle’s arm as the fingers beneath his palm twitched and jerked while Grelle thrashed.   
Twisting away, the redhead coughed again. “I—nngk—gh—I want to—desert!”  
Barely managing to squeak the words out, Grelle turned his face away and grit his teeth. He was somewhat surprised and humiliated by how little his own strength seemed to even inconvenience the older reaper.   
But.   
As he had hoped, his words caused the other to take a moment. They had surprised him.   
“You want to desert.”  
“I want to desert!” Grelle agreed desperately, as the hand around his throat was loosened.  
“There is an army of reapers to stop you,” The mortician murmured.   
“Well—how did you do it?” Grelle whimpered, barely daring to crack his eyes open again.   
Undertaker tapped his mouth again with his finger, the hand that was previously strangling him. Grelle was glad to see that it had a new occupancy, and he watched hesitantly. He prayed to only be let out of his chair, but though he was frightened, he did not regret coming here.  
Yet.   
“How did I do it... well, I took my scythe, first of all, to fight anyone who came after me. Do you think you could beat your supervisor, little one?” The mortician challenged, fixing a green ball of fire on Grelle’s petrified visage.   
Grelle thought of William, how he fought, and how he was still far greener.   
“You seem very young, as a reaper,” the Undertaker observed skeptically, echoing his thoughts.   
Slowly, Grelle nodded, accompanied with a hard swallow.   
“Then wait,” the Undertaker murmured, grip dropping away.  
Without looking at the reaper again, the mortician turned away and began to drift into the shadows of a corner of the shop, standing with his back to Grelle as his hand settled against the bookshelf.   
“Come back when you are stronger, Grelle,” he rasped. “Come back when you can fool at least one old, blind reaper, and then we will talk about tricking an army.”  
The Undertaker stood still and silent as the chair slowly scraped backwards. The footsteps were slow at first, hesitant and polite, but they quickly picked up speed as they fled out of the shop.   
Undertaker turned round just to see the door swing closed.   
He expected he would see the redhead again...  
Something in his eyes told him he was trouble.


End file.
